Desert Winter

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Book: Desert Winter by Michael Craft Read Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Craft
Review. I was attracted to both Glenn and Tanner, but for different reasons.
    Glenn offered wealth and power—heady enticements—as well as his open affection and his eagerness to woo me. He was gentlemanly, and I enjoyed his company. But I felt no spark. In spite of his vast accomplishments, Glenn was essentially a dressed-up techie, a nerd in designer clothing. What’s more, I had lingering fears that this captain of e-industry harbored some ingrained control issues, and I had always cherished my independence.
    As for Tanner—oh, God, the sparks. I had never been driven much by sexual quests, but Tanner had changed that the first time we touched. I couldn’t get enough of him. Similarly, remarkably, his appetite for me seemed forever unsatisfied. Most attractive, though, was his sheer potential as both an actor and a mature human being. He was right there, on the verge, on the brink, of shooting to stardom—under my direction. What an aphrodisiac! But the difference in our ages—was I crazy?
    Glenn was asking Tanner, “And where exactly is the clock?”
    â€œIt belongs to someone in Rancho Mirage.”
    I told Glenn, “The clock is from Stewart Chaffee’s collection. We’re picking it up at his estate. He was a hotshot society decorator, but now he’s elderly and concentrates on collecting art and antiques.”
    â€œSure, I know Stewart. Back in his prime, he was the most highly regarded decorator in the valley, and with good reason. His interiors speak for themselves; they’re timeless.” Glenn paused, then shook his head, adding, “But I have to wonder if Stewart’s years aren’t catching up with him.”
    I admitted, “He has some health problems,” an understatement.
    â€œI mean, up here”—Glenn tapped his noggin. “I’ve seen much of Stewart’s collection, and frankly, I feel he’s lost his ability to discern between fine art and the merely mediocre.”
    I grinned. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, Glenn.” More to the point, I was sure it was sour grapes. Glenn himself had become an avid art collector, with virtually unlimited funds for the pursuit of his genteel pastime. His background in the arts, however, was relatively recent, while Stewart Chaffee’s knowledge had a pedigree—a provenance—stemming from his long career.
    â€œCostume parade! Ten minutes!” Kiki Jasper-Plunkett whooshed down the aisle, rattling two armloads of bracelets as she called to the cast.
    Tanner and Thad darted off.
    From the side of his mouth, Glenn asked, “Costume parade?”
    I explained, “It’s a final review of all the costumes for the show, onstage, with full lights and makeup. We’ll check to see that everything visual has gelled.”
    A tall woman of dramatic demeanor, Kiki jangled over to us. “It’s so exciting, isn’t it? I love this moment—assuming I don’t discover that it’s back to the ol’ drawing board.” She laughed too loudly, a touch of hysteria coloring her voice.
    I assured her, “Everything will be gorgeous, Kiki. You’ve outdone yourself, as usual.” Kiki was my oldest friend, having attended theater school with me more than thirty years earlier. Her career path had led to costuming, mine to directing. Glenn had recruited her to his faculty ahead of me, assuming correctly that her presence at DAC would further entice me to make the move. Now Kiki and I were neighbors, living in the same condominium complex as Grant Knoll.
    â€œMadam Director,” bellowed a voice from the back of the hall.
    All heads turned.
    â€œMaestro Caldwell,” I answered. “Have you come to deliver your new opus?”
    â€œI have,” he intoned, “I have.” His voice filled the auditorium as he bounded down the stairs. Our sound technician, noting the composer’s arrival, followed.
    Caldwell was

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